Midnight. Alaska. My plane landed at approximately 4am EST; I was groggy and sleep-deprived, thanks to perpetually screaming babies on two arduous three-hour flights, punctuated by a four hour layover in Seattle. Now I had not seen Aunt Mary since the mid-1990s, and I prayed she would recognize me. Not to worry, I had just pulled my duffel bag off the conveyor belt and stepped outside when a young, energetic woman embraced me.
We were up until 5am (Alaska time) sharing gossip, discovering our mutual independence, and confiding the familial pressures to conform. All the while, she was stuffing my backpack with forgotten necessities (insect repellant, extra-warm set of fleece, electric blanket in case it gets cold at night, etc).
Mary was somewhat of a renegade: bold, beautiful, and unabashedly single. She was married once, divorced, and doesn't bother to go steady. When I asked why, she shrugged and replied flippantly, "You get upset if they don't call. You get upset if they do call a few days later. You get upset if they do call and don't do what you expect. Why bother being upset?"
Good point. Sometimes the truth needs to be crystallized in simple terms.
"Besides," she added, grinning, "there are more men than women here."
Then we prepared to catch my train at 7 am. Why so early, you ask? Rule #1: In Alaska, public transportation is extremely and incomparably limited. How limited? Most buses have only two departures a day: one in the morning and one in the evening. Shuttles are even worse; there is only one departure per day. Which explains why the preferred method of traveling in the state is hitchhiking. In fact, you could get fined several hundred dollars for refusing to pick up a hitchhiker during the winter. Here is the rationale: it gets so bitterly and devastatingly cold during those dark months that the hitchhiker could freeze to death before the next car comes along.
Since it took nearly 8 hours to travel from Anchorage to Denali, it was wise to take the early train. The sky was cloudless and austerely bright. The rail route wove through a gorgeous inlet called Turnagain Arm, offering dramatic views of mountains and scenery, with prolific eagles and whales. Not having an eye for watching wildlife, I saw stunning peaks that struck me mute with awe and silver waters that reflected each peak like a spiral that reached towards both heaven and earth. This stretch of land is legendary for its beauty, placed in the same league as Italy's Amalfi coast.
Then I sought a nap (I was up 36 hours at this point), but was plagued by the same curse: crying infants on the train.
In the afternoon, I finally stumbled into the Visitor Center at Denali National Park, operated on monopoly by the ubiquitous Aramark. I tried to buy a latte and was promptly charged $33.06. No, there was no alcohol, there was nothing special about the latte and I did read the board before buying (it was supposed to be $3.36). Just an incompetent clerk. Given the economic problems of this country, why are people like that still employed?
Plopping myself on a bench and feeling very heavy with fatigue, I waited for the shuttle from the Denali Mountain Morning Hostel to pick me up. The inevitable question: why on earth did "Princess" book a hostel?
Rule # 2: Denali National Park is a paradox and offers two extremities. There is luxurious lodging for $300 plus a night, or hostel lodging for $30 a night (or you can camp inside the park for free, although there are bears and the Park authorities will not be held legally accountable). There is no in-between. For the truly rustic, affluent adventurer, you can opt for an extraordinary log cabin with sumptuous room service, a spacious hot tub, and included personal laundry services. Or you can share a room with four other poor students.
Being jobless without any substantial possession to my name, I prudently chose the hostel. However, I had no idea what to expect, since I always frequented the Marriott or Hilton whenever I traveled for work.
To my pleasant surprise, the hostel was a well-organized lodge with clean amenities, a lovely kitchen, and surrounded by a host of smaller cabins. There was also plenty of young travelers from all over the world to converse with.
On that first night, however, I was a zombie. Once I saw that my bed and sheets were clean (I had six roommates), I collapsed in exhaustion.
At 2 am, someone opened the window and rays of resplendent sunshine fell onto my face. Apparently, the sun had not yet set. During the summer, Alaska boasts nearly 22hours of daylight.
A never-ending day.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Beginnings of an Alaskan Adventure
For most of my young adulthood, friends have stuck me with the affectionate and annoying nickname of "Princess." Part of it was being Asian and delicate and hopelessly uncoordinated, compounded by my love of food, fashion, and gems. However, the connotation was also one of dependency, of limitation, of always needing help from others. So I set out to change that perception. I made plans to visit the mecca of the hardy outdoors: Alaska.
Now my aunt, an accountant, lived in Anchorage and I had a standing offer to tour the rugged landscape of the Great White North with her. Two weeks before my arrival she called. "Sweetie, my quarterly financial deadlines coincide with your visit. Unfortunately, I have to work, but you are welcome to stay with me. I also suggest that you see the state on your own."
So I was forced to brave the wild on my own. Mind you, I had never gone camping before, not even with a group, let alone by myself. I began to question the prudence of my hasty decision to prove everyone wrong. Every time I mentioned the idea to a friend or former colleague, the reactions ranged from prolonged silence to disbelieving laughter to "Are you sure that is a good idea?" Nonetheless, I swallowed my doubts and started mapping my route (Anchorage, Denali National Park, Seward, Homer, etc), booking hostels and convincing myself that I was indeed the strapping adventurous sort.
Of course, I procrastinated on buying supplies until three days before the journey. I went to Campmor, a huge camping goods outlet in Paramus, NJ, where I honestly could not name half the equipment stacked high to the ceiling. In a frenzy, I called my cousin Paul, who had been to Alaska the previous year. I panicked when he didn't answer at first.
"So what do I need? I've been roaming the aisles for forty minutes hoping you'd call."
Chuckle. "Okay, waterproof hiking boots, lightweight rain gear, don't forget the mosquito nets for your face and socks for your feet, bug spray, a bell to fend off bears, a compass. Don't know how to use it? It's simple."
And he proceeded to enumerate directions that I didn't remember as well as a host of other survival items that I apparently forgot. So I went and hunted down the ideal pair of waterproof hiking boots, except that the closest size to my 7.5 was an eight. Not realizing the importance of footwear that fit securely on my feet as I climbed mountains, I bought the size eight boots because the colors were most amenable to my new rain attire. (And it was most reasonably priced.)
Armed with my backpack and necessary items suggested by a bonafide hiking expert, I grew more and more excited about the trip. I also started reading a fascinating account of Chris McCandless, a promising and philosophical university graduate who sold his car and gave away all his money to go into the Alaskan wilderness. It was a riveting book; I began to idolize the nobility of a young man to dispense with materialism and to live off the earth.
Into the Wild. What a wonderful way to find oneself.
It wasn't until my plane rose from the tarmac that I realized he died in Denali National Park.
Now my aunt, an accountant, lived in Anchorage and I had a standing offer to tour the rugged landscape of the Great White North with her. Two weeks before my arrival she called. "Sweetie, my quarterly financial deadlines coincide with your visit. Unfortunately, I have to work, but you are welcome to stay with me. I also suggest that you see the state on your own."
So I was forced to brave the wild on my own. Mind you, I had never gone camping before, not even with a group, let alone by myself. I began to question the prudence of my hasty decision to prove everyone wrong. Every time I mentioned the idea to a friend or former colleague, the reactions ranged from prolonged silence to disbelieving laughter to "Are you sure that is a good idea?" Nonetheless, I swallowed my doubts and started mapping my route (Anchorage, Denali National Park, Seward, Homer, etc), booking hostels and convincing myself that I was indeed the strapping adventurous sort.
Of course, I procrastinated on buying supplies until three days before the journey. I went to Campmor, a huge camping goods outlet in Paramus, NJ, where I honestly could not name half the equipment stacked high to the ceiling. In a frenzy, I called my cousin Paul, who had been to Alaska the previous year. I panicked when he didn't answer at first.
"So what do I need? I've been roaming the aisles for forty minutes hoping you'd call."
Chuckle. "Okay, waterproof hiking boots, lightweight rain gear, don't forget the mosquito nets for your face and socks for your feet, bug spray, a bell to fend off bears, a compass. Don't know how to use it? It's simple."
And he proceeded to enumerate directions that I didn't remember as well as a host of other survival items that I apparently forgot. So I went and hunted down the ideal pair of waterproof hiking boots, except that the closest size to my 7.5 was an eight. Not realizing the importance of footwear that fit securely on my feet as I climbed mountains, I bought the size eight boots because the colors were most amenable to my new rain attire. (And it was most reasonably priced.)
Armed with my backpack and necessary items suggested by a bonafide hiking expert, I grew more and more excited about the trip. I also started reading a fascinating account of Chris McCandless, a promising and philosophical university graduate who sold his car and gave away all his money to go into the Alaskan wilderness. It was a riveting book; I began to idolize the nobility of a young man to dispense with materialism and to live off the earth.
Into the Wild. What a wonderful way to find oneself.
It wasn't until my plane rose from the tarmac that I realized he died in Denali National Park.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Into the Past
We are creatures of memory. What we remember, not what actually happened, constitute that bygone reality we call our past. Sometimes we recall specific events, or vague impressions that haunt us beyond our comprehension. Sometimes we sense familiarity with random things, as if we are responding to a residual memory, a memory of things that happened before us and yet somehow are intimately connected to us.
Hindus believe in reincarnation, a recycling of the soul that causes one to have many iterations on earth, many lives. Once we learn our lessons, we become perfected and join Nirvana. Whether this is true or not, some people remember more than others. Some are deemed "old souls."
My cousin told me of a fascinating brand of hypnosis that could unlock a subject's childhood, and go even farther into the deeper recesses of the mind. Past Life Regression. Curious, as always, I asked him to take me back into my former selves (if I had any).
The session began with the image of a library. In my mind's eye, I walked to the shelf and searched for books. I saw three books on the shelf: pale blue, gold, and black, representing three distinct past lives. I opened the blue book.
Blinking, I saw a log cabin, and heard the rush of water coming from outside. On the mantelpiece over the fireplace were a few coarse watercolor paintings. I peered over a basin of water, and saw the rotund, homely face of a black woman. It was my face. Then I heard crying and I held a darling infant in my arms, a beautiful little girl who fortunately did not resemble her ugly grandmother. My daughter-in-law would soon be returning; she lived with me since my son died in an accident working on the railroads.
It was the 1920s and I lived on the edge of the Great Lakes. My paintings on the mantelpiece, no one valued them; indeed, no one paid them any heed. My entire life, all I was remotely good at was painting, yet no one gave me a chance. And I never learned to read.
I closed the blue book. Hands trembling, I opened the black book.
Right away, I knew I had made the wrong choice. It was in the 1960's. I was in the midst of war. I was a young scholar in South Vietnam, drafted into the army without my consent. I did not know what I was fighting for. I felt very tired; my hands were sweating around my rifle and I was never handy with a gun. I returned home for the funeral of my grandmother and everything was white. White like a ghost. White like bone. White like the blankness of a new slate.
I did not want to go back, but there I was, in the jungle. Imagining explosions, gunshots, blood, and I began to shiver. I kept shivering...
I closed the black book. I didn't want to know what was going to happen.
I refused to open the gold book. I had seen enough.
The session stopped..
Afterwards, I asked Paul how much of this was real? What if I imagined it all?
My cousin answered that often when the result is the very opposite of what one would expect, and provides insight into your current life, it is authentic. It is when people fancied themselves as famous historical figures that it becomes dicey.
Here's the interesting thing: I AM a frustrated writer. I have always been. No matter how educated I become, how successful my career is, how many lands I traveled to, and how many people loved me, I still had a burning desire to become recognized as a writer. At moments, nothing seemed to matter except to acheive status as a writer.
Almost as if it had been a part of me before my experiences of this life. Like the frustrated black painter.
Another coincidence: I have always been very comfortable with African-Americans, perhaps even more comfortable than with Asians (even though I am Asian and grew up in a primarily Caucasian neighborhood.) I tend to gravitate towards their openness and affectionate way of relating to each other.
Was it because they were once my people?
I am still noodling over this one.
Hindus believe in reincarnation, a recycling of the soul that causes one to have many iterations on earth, many lives. Once we learn our lessons, we become perfected and join Nirvana. Whether this is true or not, some people remember more than others. Some are deemed "old souls."
My cousin told me of a fascinating brand of hypnosis that could unlock a subject's childhood, and go even farther into the deeper recesses of the mind. Past Life Regression. Curious, as always, I asked him to take me back into my former selves (if I had any).
The session began with the image of a library. In my mind's eye, I walked to the shelf and searched for books. I saw three books on the shelf: pale blue, gold, and black, representing three distinct past lives. I opened the blue book.
Blinking, I saw a log cabin, and heard the rush of water coming from outside. On the mantelpiece over the fireplace were a few coarse watercolor paintings. I peered over a basin of water, and saw the rotund, homely face of a black woman. It was my face. Then I heard crying and I held a darling infant in my arms, a beautiful little girl who fortunately did not resemble her ugly grandmother. My daughter-in-law would soon be returning; she lived with me since my son died in an accident working on the railroads.
It was the 1920s and I lived on the edge of the Great Lakes. My paintings on the mantelpiece, no one valued them; indeed, no one paid them any heed. My entire life, all I was remotely good at was painting, yet no one gave me a chance. And I never learned to read.
I closed the blue book. Hands trembling, I opened the black book.
Right away, I knew I had made the wrong choice. It was in the 1960's. I was in the midst of war. I was a young scholar in South Vietnam, drafted into the army without my consent. I did not know what I was fighting for. I felt very tired; my hands were sweating around my rifle and I was never handy with a gun. I returned home for the funeral of my grandmother and everything was white. White like a ghost. White like bone. White like the blankness of a new slate.
I did not want to go back, but there I was, in the jungle. Imagining explosions, gunshots, blood, and I began to shiver. I kept shivering...
I closed the black book. I didn't want to know what was going to happen.
I refused to open the gold book. I had seen enough.
The session stopped..
Afterwards, I asked Paul how much of this was real? What if I imagined it all?
My cousin answered that often when the result is the very opposite of what one would expect, and provides insight into your current life, it is authentic. It is when people fancied themselves as famous historical figures that it becomes dicey.
Here's the interesting thing: I AM a frustrated writer. I have always been. No matter how educated I become, how successful my career is, how many lands I traveled to, and how many people loved me, I still had a burning desire to become recognized as a writer. At moments, nothing seemed to matter except to acheive status as a writer.
Almost as if it had been a part of me before my experiences of this life. Like the frustrated black painter.
Another coincidence: I have always been very comfortable with African-Americans, perhaps even more comfortable than with Asians (even though I am Asian and grew up in a primarily Caucasian neighborhood.) I tend to gravitate towards their openness and affectionate way of relating to each other.
Was it because they were once my people?
I am still noodling over this one.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Meet the Hypnotist
I know what you're thinking: the dangling pocket-watch, smoke and mirrors, and infinitely embarassing moments beyond your memory and control, clucking like a chicken or running around in boxer shorts.
Three years ago, my cousin Paul informed me that he gave up his ten-year career in biotech and research to become a hypnotist. Here was a man who studied marine biology, spent summers scuba diving and pulling sea urchins off undersea rocks in Belize. While biotech did not thrill him, it was a safe, stable occupation that allowed him to jam with the bands and to meditate in his leisure. Naturally curious, I asked the inevitable question.
Why?
Apparently, there is another kind of hypnosis, a guided meditation through your past that allows you to understand experiences and events with new perspective, the kind of perspective that allows healing, positive change, and ultimately transformation.
Paul believed in the intrinsic power of human consciousness to renew the spirit and to alleviate the body. So strong was his conviction that he gave up everything for this new calling: Moodstreams Hypnosis. (Asian parents would think of it as reckless.)
I was slightly skeptical, but intrigued. I had been suffering from panic attacks since early adulthood. Any innocuous trigger like missing a bus or losing keys would cause me to react catastrophically. My heart would pound incessantly and I was instantly paralyzed by fear. Panic attacks halted my career, obstructed me from making decisions, and ruined relationships because I became an "emotional basket-case."
I had tried counseling, meditation, and a plethora of self-help books, but nothing worked.
Out of desperation, I asked my cousin for a hypnosis session.
Most surprising was the amount of control I had. As we explored my past together, I was always aware and free to proceed or stop at any point in the process. I felt my arms floating as if they were weightless. We visualized the panic, a nebulous darkness that pressed down upon my chest, heavier than a boulder. He asked me to remember the first time I experienced that sensation.
I was three and outdoors at a barbeque or garden party with family friends. I had just shown everyone the aquamarine flowers on my underpants and didn't understand why they laughed. Then the sky darkened, thunder rumbled, and everyone disappeared. Lightning flashed and I grabbed the handle of the door, but it wouldn't open. I kicked it and banged it and screamed, but nothing happened.
I thought I was going to die. I thought the world was coming to an end. Then I panicked.
"Now," said my cousin in his soft, velvety voice, "tell that little girl what you know now."
And I told that little girl, three-year-old version of myself, everything was going to be okay. I asked her to breathe. I comforted her and indicated the door was not locked, merely stuck and she only had to keep trying. I told her she had a core of strength, like iron, which could survive all odds. She could withstand anything, as long as she had herself.
Then I opened my eyes. I discovered that our most traumatic truths lie buried within us, weighing us down by the sheer hurt and pain over the years. I felt strangely lightened and liberated.
Call me a believer, but it's been over a year and I haven't had an attack yet.
Three years ago, my cousin Paul informed me that he gave up his ten-year career in biotech and research to become a hypnotist. Here was a man who studied marine biology, spent summers scuba diving and pulling sea urchins off undersea rocks in Belize. While biotech did not thrill him, it was a safe, stable occupation that allowed him to jam with the bands and to meditate in his leisure. Naturally curious, I asked the inevitable question.
Why?
Apparently, there is another kind of hypnosis, a guided meditation through your past that allows you to understand experiences and events with new perspective, the kind of perspective that allows healing, positive change, and ultimately transformation.
Paul believed in the intrinsic power of human consciousness to renew the spirit and to alleviate the body. So strong was his conviction that he gave up everything for this new calling: Moodstreams Hypnosis. (Asian parents would think of it as reckless.)
I was slightly skeptical, but intrigued. I had been suffering from panic attacks since early adulthood. Any innocuous trigger like missing a bus or losing keys would cause me to react catastrophically. My heart would pound incessantly and I was instantly paralyzed by fear. Panic attacks halted my career, obstructed me from making decisions, and ruined relationships because I became an "emotional basket-case."
I had tried counseling, meditation, and a plethora of self-help books, but nothing worked.
Out of desperation, I asked my cousin for a hypnosis session.
Most surprising was the amount of control I had. As we explored my past together, I was always aware and free to proceed or stop at any point in the process. I felt my arms floating as if they were weightless. We visualized the panic, a nebulous darkness that pressed down upon my chest, heavier than a boulder. He asked me to remember the first time I experienced that sensation.
I was three and outdoors at a barbeque or garden party with family friends. I had just shown everyone the aquamarine flowers on my underpants and didn't understand why they laughed. Then the sky darkened, thunder rumbled, and everyone disappeared. Lightning flashed and I grabbed the handle of the door, but it wouldn't open. I kicked it and banged it and screamed, but nothing happened.
I thought I was going to die. I thought the world was coming to an end. Then I panicked.
"Now," said my cousin in his soft, velvety voice, "tell that little girl what you know now."
And I told that little girl, three-year-old version of myself, everything was going to be okay. I asked her to breathe. I comforted her and indicated the door was not locked, merely stuck and she only had to keep trying. I told her she had a core of strength, like iron, which could survive all odds. She could withstand anything, as long as she had herself.
Then I opened my eyes. I discovered that our most traumatic truths lie buried within us, weighing us down by the sheer hurt and pain over the years. I felt strangely lightened and liberated.
Call me a believer, but it's been over a year and I haven't had an attack yet.
Monday, February 14, 2011
My Roommate, the Monitor Lizard
Confession: I have never been an animal person. Early in childhood, I had a dog but not long enough to establish the well-accepted connection with man's best friend. Quite honestly, it always struck me as a bit silly how much we humanize domestic animals like dogs or cats: consistently photographing them, talking to them, dressing them, and indulging their whims.
My cousin in Waltham, Massachusetts gladly put me up for a visit, on the condition that I was "okay" with his pets. Now I knew he had a cat, a few snakes, a lizard, and I would be sharing living space with these creatures. I didn't imagine anything more than small reptiles, and I was certainly okay with that.
Welcome to the world of Tazzy, the monitor lizard. She was approximately 3 feet long and about a foot wide, with sharp-looking talons and yellow, watchful eyes. Crowned with speckled scales, she sauntered like a queen in her bed of straw and the faux log that she curled herself around. My cousin strategically placed her in a wood and glass enclosure which was quite secure, since he had built it himself. And the couch adjacent to the enclosure was extremely comfortable. Nonetheless, I had trouble sleeping that first night, due to Tazzy's intermittent nocturnal rumblings.
Tazzy was definitely female, and I was surprised by how well developed her feminine sensibilities were, especially for a reptile. Here is what I learned:
She is territorial. Sometimes I forget that she is there, waking up in that groggy place between dreaming and consciousness. She reminds me of her presence with a golden glowering glare that is uniquely her own. Admittedly, this is her room, her territory. She was here first. I AM the intruder, even though I am human, and she never lets me forget it.
She is moody. Women have their monthly cycles. Monitor lizards have their lunar egg laying periods. Whenever I visited Boston, it was Tazzy's time of the month. I learned that hormonal tempestuousness is universal among all she-creatures. She was bloated, she groaned, she grunted. She lay around acting crabby and refused to come out of her cage. I wondered if she craved any comfort foods.
She gets jealous. Whenever my cousin and I were in the room, her gaze was determinedly fixed on me. She didn't trust me. Mistress of the room was protective of her man. While amphibians and reptiles were polygamous by nature, my cousin's devotion led Tazzy to expect utter loyalty from him. Any other female was worthy of suspicion. My cousin assured me she was much better tempered after I had left.
So maybe it isn't about humanizing animals in our own image (apparently, even reptiles seem to understand affection). Maybe we are more animalistic than we think. After all, we eat, drink, sleep, lust, and we die. We are more often driven by emotion and passion than by logic. We are intrinsically selfish and focused on survival.
One key difference. With animals, their motives and actions are always very clear. They eat when they mean to eat and kill when they need to kill. They chase only when necessary. They do what they do without any pomp and circumstance. Without great visions, ambiguous words, or good intentions.
Without pretense.
I'd rather live in the animal world.
My cousin in Waltham, Massachusetts gladly put me up for a visit, on the condition that I was "okay" with his pets. Now I knew he had a cat, a few snakes, a lizard, and I would be sharing living space with these creatures. I didn't imagine anything more than small reptiles, and I was certainly okay with that.
Welcome to the world of Tazzy, the monitor lizard. She was approximately 3 feet long and about a foot wide, with sharp-looking talons and yellow, watchful eyes. Crowned with speckled scales, she sauntered like a queen in her bed of straw and the faux log that she curled herself around. My cousin strategically placed her in a wood and glass enclosure which was quite secure, since he had built it himself. And the couch adjacent to the enclosure was extremely comfortable. Nonetheless, I had trouble sleeping that first night, due to Tazzy's intermittent nocturnal rumblings.
Tazzy was definitely female, and I was surprised by how well developed her feminine sensibilities were, especially for a reptile. Here is what I learned:
She is territorial. Sometimes I forget that she is there, waking up in that groggy place between dreaming and consciousness. She reminds me of her presence with a golden glowering glare that is uniquely her own. Admittedly, this is her room, her territory. She was here first. I AM the intruder, even though I am human, and she never lets me forget it.
She is moody. Women have their monthly cycles. Monitor lizards have their lunar egg laying periods. Whenever I visited Boston, it was Tazzy's time of the month. I learned that hormonal tempestuousness is universal among all she-creatures. She was bloated, she groaned, she grunted. She lay around acting crabby and refused to come out of her cage. I wondered if she craved any comfort foods.
She gets jealous. Whenever my cousin and I were in the room, her gaze was determinedly fixed on me. She didn't trust me. Mistress of the room was protective of her man. While amphibians and reptiles were polygamous by nature, my cousin's devotion led Tazzy to expect utter loyalty from him. Any other female was worthy of suspicion. My cousin assured me she was much better tempered after I had left.
So maybe it isn't about humanizing animals in our own image (apparently, even reptiles seem to understand affection). Maybe we are more animalistic than we think. After all, we eat, drink, sleep, lust, and we die. We are more often driven by emotion and passion than by logic. We are intrinsically selfish and focused on survival.
One key difference. With animals, their motives and actions are always very clear. They eat when they mean to eat and kill when they need to kill. They chase only when necessary. They do what they do without any pomp and circumstance. Without great visions, ambiguous words, or good intentions.
Without pretense.
I'd rather live in the animal world.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Somewhere Between a Palace and a Pavilion
Last day. En route to the occasional residence of the royal family, I marveled at Japanese diplomacy. Only non-Japanese tourists are allowed to see the Kyoto Imperial Palace on their date of arrival (with valid passport in hand of course), while natives have to make an in-person reservation weeks in advance, knowing that they will be bumped by foreigners at the last minute.
What was inside? Harmony. The upturned eaves were the shade of lapis lazuli, but the walls were bare white. The undersides of gates and columns were a flagrant orange, balanced by neutral grey. How different from the Chinese cacophony of colors, which is arresting to the eye, but too overwhelming to be comfortable. My mother nodded at me, and I knew she was going to say, "Elegant." Everything about Kyoto had been "elegant," and for my mother, that is the highest praise.
Next came the Ginkakuji, the Silver Pavilion. It might have been the absence of crowds or my more relaxed state of mind, but I found it to be the very essence of serenity. I recall the bamboo shadows, green curvatures of the garden more so than the temple itself, its silver exterior darkening through rain and oxidation. That's also where I met Eddie.
Eddie was a fellow American traveler and a lucky one at that. His work required extensive international trips, which he always managed to parlay into personal explorations of the world. He came to Kyoto while on business in Osaka.
We bonded immediately, over Uncle Sam and mutual cases of wanderlust. We experienced the Philosopher's walk together, a willow-lined path that wound through small village temples and ancestral shrines.
Our conversation lasted long into the night, over a savory meal of fish and sake, over a moonlit stroll through the eerily lit Yakasa Shrine with its wavering lanterns. We discussed metaphysics, disappointments, and an insatiable hunger for adventure that neither of us could quench. I began to see a reflection of myself in him, albeit an unlikely one since he was a well-built, Hispanic man of 6'2" and I was a diminutive Asian girl of 5'3".
I had not conversed that freely in a long time. Kindred spirits understand something so intrinsic within you that it surpasses the confines of your present condition. I thought about everything that had defined me before, everything that I had lost: career, relationship, and health. If I had defined myself by those things, am I now nothing?
Somewhere between the palaces, pavilions, and shrines, I met myself again. At some point into the journey in another country, a miraculous thing happens to us. We find ourselves detached from the social and cultural norms of the place we left, and yet not aware enough to assimilate into the place we are visiting. For the moment, we are liberated from our past traditions and not yet bound to expectations of a new tradition. In that brief space, we are free, more truly ourselves, rejuvenated by the internal fire that burns inside of us. And we remember the infinite possibilities of the self.
Right now, I had nothing but the infinite possibilities of the self.
What was inside? Harmony. The upturned eaves were the shade of lapis lazuli, but the walls were bare white. The undersides of gates and columns were a flagrant orange, balanced by neutral grey. How different from the Chinese cacophony of colors, which is arresting to the eye, but too overwhelming to be comfortable. My mother nodded at me, and I knew she was going to say, "Elegant." Everything about Kyoto had been "elegant," and for my mother, that is the highest praise.
Next came the Ginkakuji, the Silver Pavilion. It might have been the absence of crowds or my more relaxed state of mind, but I found it to be the very essence of serenity. I recall the bamboo shadows, green curvatures of the garden more so than the temple itself, its silver exterior darkening through rain and oxidation. That's also where I met Eddie.
Eddie was a fellow American traveler and a lucky one at that. His work required extensive international trips, which he always managed to parlay into personal explorations of the world. He came to Kyoto while on business in Osaka.
We bonded immediately, over Uncle Sam and mutual cases of wanderlust. We experienced the Philosopher's walk together, a willow-lined path that wound through small village temples and ancestral shrines.
Our conversation lasted long into the night, over a savory meal of fish and sake, over a moonlit stroll through the eerily lit Yakasa Shrine with its wavering lanterns. We discussed metaphysics, disappointments, and an insatiable hunger for adventure that neither of us could quench. I began to see a reflection of myself in him, albeit an unlikely one since he was a well-built, Hispanic man of 6'2" and I was a diminutive Asian girl of 5'3".
I had not conversed that freely in a long time. Kindred spirits understand something so intrinsic within you that it surpasses the confines of your present condition. I thought about everything that had defined me before, everything that I had lost: career, relationship, and health. If I had defined myself by those things, am I now nothing?
Somewhere between the palaces, pavilions, and shrines, I met myself again. At some point into the journey in another country, a miraculous thing happens to us. We find ourselves detached from the social and cultural norms of the place we left, and yet not aware enough to assimilate into the place we are visiting. For the moment, we are liberated from our past traditions and not yet bound to expectations of a new tradition. In that brief space, we are free, more truly ourselves, rejuvenated by the internal fire that burns inside of us. And we remember the infinite possibilities of the self.
Right now, I had nothing but the infinite possibilities of the self.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Art of Being
One of the pitfalls of traveling is the inevitable feeling of not enough. No matter how long the visit, how familiar the territory, how organized and efficient the itinerary, there is the lingering thought that something wonderful has slipped beyond our grasp. So we plan, we rush, we don't sleep, and we run ourselves ragged in a foreign city or rainforest, thinking that it's fun. And it is.
But there are places where time can pause, even for a mere moment, where your senses are startled by sheer beauty, and the vibrating pulse that is life seems ever more complete. For me, the Kyomizu Temple was such a place. Perched high on a mountain, it overlooked the ravishing vista of Kyoto from a network of beautifully crafted pavilions. Unchallenged was the main monastery protruding from the edge of the cliff. Here was a place to listen to the rustling of leaves, the budding of cherry blossoms, the rhythm of raindrops.
Here was a place to be.
Buddhist monks spend generations learning to meditate, to clear the mind of noise. In the absence of the rampant, wild monkey mind that gives rise to desires and greed, enlightenment is found. In the silence, we can find peace.
Yet even as I climbed this spiritual place, tourists are rushing, pushing, and dashing off to see another Unesco world heritage site before sunset. Some halted for a split second or two to take in the exquisite view, before the pressures of "seeing everything" overwhelmed them to take out a map or checklist. Admittedly, I was just like that yesterday. Or a minute ago.
An uncle from California had taught me to meditate once, but I abandoned it because who had time to sit around and do nothing?
As the sky turned gold and magenta, I allowed myself to stop. To stop going. To stop doing. To stop being busy. I understood that activity is a distraction, blinding me from the tumultuous storm inside. All this time, I'd been running from myself.
I heard myself breathing.
I saw the white flutterings of paper offerings, prayers to the beloved deceased, cover the temple like snow whenever the wind whistled.
I saw the sky transform; bold, definitive colors that marked the ending of the present day. I understood that while some things must end, my life will renew itself. Effortlessly, like the rising of the sun tomorrow.
The ancient Aztecs believed that night is synonymous with death, and that something must consciously be done to make the sun rise everyday. Their answer was blood and human sacrifice. While our twenty-first century perspective deems them foolish, we are just as foolish in our own world. Always trying to make things happen, to force things to happen, even things beyond our control. Such is the genesis of the quintessential control-freak, and there are many loose and active among us. (Myself included).
Let the night come. Let a certain part of yourself die. That is where healing begins.
I have never forgotten that sunset.
But there are places where time can pause, even for a mere moment, where your senses are startled by sheer beauty, and the vibrating pulse that is life seems ever more complete. For me, the Kyomizu Temple was such a place. Perched high on a mountain, it overlooked the ravishing vista of Kyoto from a network of beautifully crafted pavilions. Unchallenged was the main monastery protruding from the edge of the cliff. Here was a place to listen to the rustling of leaves, the budding of cherry blossoms, the rhythm of raindrops.
Here was a place to be.
Buddhist monks spend generations learning to meditate, to clear the mind of noise. In the absence of the rampant, wild monkey mind that gives rise to desires and greed, enlightenment is found. In the silence, we can find peace.
Yet even as I climbed this spiritual place, tourists are rushing, pushing, and dashing off to see another Unesco world heritage site before sunset. Some halted for a split second or two to take in the exquisite view, before the pressures of "seeing everything" overwhelmed them to take out a map or checklist. Admittedly, I was just like that yesterday. Or a minute ago.
An uncle from California had taught me to meditate once, but I abandoned it because who had time to sit around and do nothing?
As the sky turned gold and magenta, I allowed myself to stop. To stop going. To stop doing. To stop being busy. I understood that activity is a distraction, blinding me from the tumultuous storm inside. All this time, I'd been running from myself.
I heard myself breathing.
I saw the white flutterings of paper offerings, prayers to the beloved deceased, cover the temple like snow whenever the wind whistled.
I saw the sky transform; bold, definitive colors that marked the ending of the present day. I understood that while some things must end, my life will renew itself. Effortlessly, like the rising of the sun tomorrow.
The ancient Aztecs believed that night is synonymous with death, and that something must consciously be done to make the sun rise everyday. Their answer was blood and human sacrifice. While our twenty-first century perspective deems them foolish, we are just as foolish in our own world. Always trying to make things happen, to force things to happen, even things beyond our control. Such is the genesis of the quintessential control-freak, and there are many loose and active among us. (Myself included).
Let the night come. Let a certain part of yourself die. That is where healing begins.
I have never forgotten that sunset.
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